Waiting for the Monsoon by Threes Anna

her grandmother’s blackened frozen feet and her death, propels her onward. She peers ahead, but the snow that blows into her eyes is piercing.
    Then she bumps into something. A tree, a pole, a wall? It turns out to be a tree, which means she has reached the park. She must take care not to go into the park but to follow the road leading to the tennis courts. She trudges on, one step at a time. Her hands and feet are numb. If only she’d followed the path with the lanterns. She shields her eyes with both hands and peers into the distance. A light is burning. She begins to run in that direction, but the first long stride sends her sprawling, and she hits her knee on a branch hidden under the snow. She cries out, but there’s no one to hear her. She slips and slides toward the light. Sometimes it’s there, sometimes it disappears. She rubs the snow out of her eyes. She totters. The smell of a smoking chimney comes wafting in her direction. That means she’s close to a house and warmth and people. She sees a lighted window. She pounds on the door with both fists. She hears someone coming. The door opens and a pair of hands pull the snow-covered girl into the hall and close the door behind her.
    Shocked, the woman looks at the blue lips and red eyes of the unrecognizable child. “What on earth were you doing outside alone?” she says sternly. “Have you lost your senses?”
    Charlotte feels the warmth of the hall and the woman’s hands as they unbutton her coat, and she smells the aroma of stew. She thinks of her grandmother, whom she never knew, and her father, who always said, “A true Bridgwater doesn’t cry.” Suddenly she realizes that her father has no idea what snow is like, and cannot understand how much it can hurt. And that he couldn’t know that his mother didn’t cry, because he was still a baby when she died. “I came to get Mrs. Blackburn’s reading glasses,” she sobbed.
1946 Bombay ~~~
    HE LOOKS LOVINGLY at the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Since the day before, they haven’t spoken a word. They have only made love. Peter feels that he has known her for years, that there is no need for her to speak, to tell him who she is, why she is here. Her long hair glides over her shoulders as she looks up at him and smiles.
    She strokes his leg. There is a large scar below his knee. With her fingertip she gently traces the ragged, swollen line of the poorly healed wound. She senses that it is a miracle that he still has that leg, that it is painful, that he doesn’t want to talk about it, that she mustn’t ask him any questions, that he will tell her about it when he’s ready.
    There is a knock at the door. They look at each other questioningly. The magic of the past night is suddenly gone. Shyly, Charlotte wraps a bath towel around her naked body. She pulls the curtain aside. The morning light, which for hours has been trying to creep into the room, finally appears, making a sparkling entrance. Quickly Peter draws the sheet over himself. Charlotte walks to the door. She looks back at him, smiles, and turns the key.
    The door is pushed open, knocking her backwards. She immediately recognizes the uniformed figure who steps into the room.
    He looks at her, is momentarily at a loss for words, and then recovers himself.
    â€œCharlotte?”
    She nods.
    â€œHow you’ve grown.”
    She is conscious of her breasts and thighs, which are still fiery. “Did you get my note?”
    Now he is the one who nods. He doesn’t know what to say. His daughter is not the girl he expected to find. Before him stands a beautiful woman. She looks like Mathilda, the same eyes and narrow lips. For an instant he thinks that he could fall in love with her if he didn’t know who she was. Charlotte runs a hand through her hair, just like her mother used to do, and smiles shyly. How beautiful she is! Then he takes a step forward, into the